


Finding Strength

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: With Argus burning in the sky and his first holiday season as king approaching, Anduin finds warmth in the arms of a friend





	Finding Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Hurt/comfort, character death mention. Casual reminder my Wrathion is trans.

Anduin pulled his cloak around him as another gust blew off the harbor to stretch its icy claws through the streets. A shopkeeper yelled and rushed past him, scrambling to catch his sign before it tumbled into the canal. A woman beside him clutched her child to her chest. A murmur passed through the crowd: discontented, hopeless. Anduin couldn’t help but shake his head and sigh.

With only one week to go before Pilgrim’s Bounty, the Trade District was rumbling with life. Merchants promised the freshest corn from Westfall, the best bread, the fattest turkeys in Azeroth, and there were more than enough citizens thronging their shops to keep Stormwind’s economy alive. Normally, it would have brought a smile to Anduin’s face. But this season the streets were no more festive than the winter winds. And with Argus shining its fel-stained face upon them, it wasn’t difficult to see why all the cheer had vanished.

Pulling the hood down over his eyes as he ducked past the arch that led towards the Mage Quarter, growing warier now of his magical disguise, he pursed his lips and stared at the sea. Another billow kicked up and rushed from the Park to the Stockades, and the marigolds in his other hand threatened to scatter, shivering, spilling a few golden petals onto the cobblestone path. He caught one of them just in time; turning away from Argus, he closed his eyes, and reached out to the Light.

 _Please._ He silently prayed. _How can I keep my people calm with the Legion watching like this? Please, help me know what to do._

____________________

By the time he returned to the Keep the sun was setting behind the mountains, their shadows playing on the fountain and white-stone walls and shrouding Varian’s statue at the inner gate. He had been so _embarrassed_ about that statue, bristling with teenage chagrin when his father had it commissioned.

Now it seemed to watch him, guard him. It put him at ease knowing his father would always be there. He wished he could take back that argument, and every argument, really. Maybe if they had just listened to each other. Maybe if Anduin had just told his father how he felt, they both could have tried. They could have just had each other, and not—

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed them closed. It was the same broken record moaning in the hollowest parts of his chest since that compass returned to Stormwind. What ifs, and wasted opportunities. He couldn’t let regret overcome him again, he reminded himself. Wiping his face, he passed around the fountain and wound his way up the stairs.

His father had grown and changed. They had struggled, but he had died knowing how much Anduin loved him.

Holding that thought in his mind, Anduin dropped his disguise, and the guards flanking the door froze at attention. 

“Your Majesty?” 

He waved them down, forcing a smile through wind-chapped cheeks and reddened eyes, reaching into himself and summoning every last ounce of strength he had for cordial nods and happy words. “The city was crowded today. It seems like everyone is getting ready for the feast.”

“I heard the farmers in Goldshire had quite the crop this year, your Majesty. I’m looking forward to the apple pie, myself.”

“And the pumpkin!” He managed to laugh, appreciating the banter. It felt like being a prince again, like staying up chatting with his attendants about holidays and tournaments and life beyond the city walls. If nothing else, he could at least play festive for them. The city needed hope now more than ever.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he nodded, and tried to mean it. Once inside the Keep, he let his cloak fall from his shoulders and took the stairs up to the royal quarters. 

A quiet night in his chamber would do him some good, he decided. The week ahead would be a busy one, and he needed a few more hours to himself before he could face the crowds.

____________________

Wrathion remembered the right window: exactly 22° west of due north, the easiest one to reach when flying from Blackrock, and just beside the king’s desk. Anduin always left one of the panels unlocked, and he could nudge his snout between glass and pane and swoop down onto the chair. The first few tries it had been more of a tumble, but luckily his king hadn’t been around to see. He would have never let him live it down, Wrathion thought with a laugh, no matter how eager he was to see him or how long he had been away.

But when Anduin opened the door today, it was clear something was wrong. His cheeks were wind-chapped and swollen; he smiled, but it struggled to reach his eyes. Wrathion sat up a little straighter, and flashed him a grin, hoping his presence would not be unwelcome. “My king!” He greeted; the cheer in his voice tried to be more than enough. Anduin lifted his head, and his eyes widened.

“Wrathion.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. Wrathion rose and stepped forward, all but closing the distance between them. “You’re here.”

“You still leave the window unlocked. I'm sorry I have been away since that dreadful planet—”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Anduin quickly cut him off. He tensed, wary he might have said too much, but his apology died on his lips when Anduin reached down to touch his face.

His fingers were cold, even through the gloves: like an icy wind or raindrops in a late autumn storm. He nuzzled against them and tried to warm them. They felt like tears on his face. 

“My king,” he murmured, trying to hold his gaze for a moment, at least, inviting clarification. The remnants of Anduin’s brave smile seemed to crumble, and he wrapped his arms tightly around him. 

“It’s going to be a cold winter,” the king finally admitted, as if somehow that explained away the conflict and fear rippling in his eyes, but Wrathion didn’t push it. His hand slid up to his shoulder. His forehead pressed against his chin. 

“That’s what they say, yes. There were blizzards in Northrend last week. I suppose we’ll be getting the snows here soon, and you know how I feel about _that_.”

He felt a soft laugh bubble in Anduin’s chest, rising to his lips and ruffling through the soft folds of his turban. It felt...familiar. Like the times they had giggled together at the Tavern, teasing, embracing under the covers after a long night of games. Even in the royal quarters and with this _pesky_ size difference he still hadn’t quite gotten used to, being with Anduin made him feel safe: at home.

And when Anduin stepped back, a soft, genuine smile now shining in his eyes, it was clear he agreed. Fingers lacing together in the space between them, they stood for a moment in silence— warm, comfortable— and the planet burning outside felt like a million miles away.

____________________

“And so it’s about being thankful for the harvests, then? Like the Harvest festival at Halfhill?” Wrathion stretched across his bed, turban discarded on the floor and thick tresses tousled by his duvet. He looked up at him. His red eyes sparkled in the fading light, excitement seeming to burn beneath the surface as he awaited confirmation.

Anduin nodded and sat down beside him, his hand resting gently against Wrathion’s shoulder. “Yes, but mostly it’s about eating so much you feel sick, and dozing off while Genn and Matthias argue about jousting.”

“Oh, but jousting seems fun! I’ve never seen anything like it, but I heard there was a tournament in Icecrown. Just before the storming of the Citadel, yes? That would have been something to see.”

“Father and Tirion were there, and Auntie Jaina, and Garrosh, I think.” 

He hadn’t meant for his whisper to come off so strained; he swallowed, cursing himself for dampening the mood, but Wrathion merely rolled over and rested his head in his lap. 

Their eyes met. Wrathion’s horns— finally long enough to poke through his hair, at least three inches longer than when they first met— brushed against his inner thigh. “Much has changed, my king. But your father was a hero. I am sure he made the Alliance proud that day.”

“Mh!” Anduin snorted. It wasn’t until confusion passed over Wrathion’s face that he realized what he had done, and, flushing, he scrambled to explain: “Father fought with the orcs. Lord Tirion was furious.”

“Ah, well, your father was how he was.” Turning his head slightly, Wrathion pressed a kiss to his knee. The blush on Anduin’s cheeks deepened, and, hoping his trembling fingers wouldn’t betray him, he reached down and brushed a strand of hair off Wrathion’s forehead. The next kiss was to his wrist, and then to his palm, and by the time Wrathion’s mouth reached his thumb he was staring, transfixed. Heat spread from his face to his chest, and he kept watching, smiling—

“Just like you are who you are, my king. Each ruler has his own strengths and weaknesses. Your father was bold but hot-headed. You are gentle, but all the stronger for it.”

“Strong?” He shook his head, resigned, but Wrathion persisted.

“The strongest mortal I’ve ever met, yes. Why else do you think I’ve wasted so much precious time playing games with you?”

The tease was a welcome one. He laughed, and Wrathion caught his thumb between his lips, flicking his forked tongue over its tip, leaving him as happy as he was flustered. They shared a meaningful look, and it was clear just how much Wrathion meant what he had said: just how much he had come to believe in Anduin’s strength after all the arguments and whispers and all they had been through. 

Another howling gale whistled at the window and rattled the panes; Anduin heard it, but didn’t pay it a glance, instead sliding down to wrap his arms around Wrathion’s waist.

____________________

Wrathion felt...small— even in human form— under Anduin’s blue silk duvet. He could get lost in those blankets, under that canopy with its lions and carved oak heraldry, but then Anduin was there to wrap his arms around him, to warm him and bring him back. The king pressed his face against Wrathion’s neck, and a sigh escaped his lips.

Anduin’s fingers trailed from his hair to his horns, then back to his cheek, as if exploring, assessing the differences in hardness and texture on their way to tilt up his chin. They were warm now: as warm as the chest pressed flush against his, and as soft as the blond hair tumbling down off his shoulder.

Wrathion clutched his back. Nails dug into flesh, and the king moaned against his shoulder. 

“Yes, Anduin,” he urged. Their hips rocked together, and with their bodies tangled beneath the blankets it was easy not to feel shy. He pressed up against the growing bulge in Anduin’s tunic. The king slid his hand between them and tugged at the cord holding his pants in place. Before Wrathion had the chance to beg, Anduin’s fingers made their way under the waistband and dipped down to his slit. A tremble overtook him. His thighs tensed, and he bit Anduin’s arm to hold back his cry. 

“Ah-!” Sharp teeth drew a moan from Anduin’s lips. He kissed the bruise that formed there, and Anduin held him tighter, all but clinging as they rocked together and enjoyed the warmth of each other’s form. Older and more familiar now, the king knew just where to touch him, just how to make him shiver. He knew just how to slide his fingers down Wrathion’s hips, and how to press his head against him. The king’s thumb— slick with his wetness now— circled his swollen clit, and he gasped, his back arching off of the mattress.

“Okay?” Anduin slid down to murmur against his ear, waiting, as patient as he’d always been, and just as gentle. Wrathion nodded. Anduin drew another gasp from his lips as he lifted his hips and pressed into him.

The king’s forehead rested against his as he exhaled: low and relieved, lost when Wrathion dragged him down into a kiss. The dragon’s nails traced up his back to hide in his hair, wrapping those locks between his fingers and clinging, tugging, even, as he arched his back up to meet him. He caught his lip between his teeth, then his tongue between his lips, sucking and teasing and melting into the space where Anduin’s body became his own. They kissed and moaned and _held on_ , and for now, at least, the world didn’t feel so cold.

Together like this, their past became their present, and neither demon nor royal decorum could get in their way.

Anduin’s thrusts grew faster when the kiss broke. Gazing down at Wrathion, he grinned, the honest hints of a blush spreading across his cheeks. To catch him off guard, Wrathion shifted his weight out from under him, leaving the king to roll, almost fall, onto the mattress beside him. The coils squeaked; Anduin let out a soft ‘hmph’ that rose to a laugh as Wrathion swung a leg up over his waist and sank down onto him.

Finding his hips with his hands, Anduin steadied him, and Wrathion rocked forward playfully. The king met this game with one of his own: dragging his fingertips from the hard curve of his hips to his belly and then to toy with the dragon’s hair. He drew out a very _unbecoming_ whine; it was all Wrathion could do to fall forward and hide his flushed face against the curve of Anduin’s chest. 

With every thrust, Anduin rolled his finger between his lips and drew out a shudder. With every nip and kiss to the human’s shoulder, Anduin met it with kisses and nuzzles to his horns, his hair, any place he could reach. And when Wrathion’s legs started shaking, Anduin clung to them, thrusting up hard and leaving him breathless. His body tensed and he threw back his head. Pulling him down, Anduin let out a cry, and with his face buried against Wrathion’s neck the sound faded to a moan, ragged and weak. Hot and content, Wrathion fell limp atop his chest.

And even after they managed to catch their breath, they kept lying like that, tangled, warm and wet and _together_ with the king’s lips pressed flush against his skin. He tucked a strand of hair behind Anduin’s ear, and he giggled, almost too soft to be heard. Letting his eyes slide closed, Wrathion listened: to the king’s breath, the low ‘thd’ of his heart in his chest, the softness of his voice as he broke the pause that had set in between them to say:

“Come to the feast with me next week.”

Wrathion blinked, casting a red glow across his skin as he turned his gaze to his face. He had clearly misheard, he reasoned, and not— “Hm?”

“The feast. I want you to come with me. Uh, as my date. I mean.”

“Anduin Wrynn, that is sure to cause quite the scandal. You do not have to, ah—”

Shaking his head and trailing his finger down Wrathion’s back, he waited a moment, then murmured, “It’s better for my people to see me happy. Besides—”

Their eyes met again, and something about the confidence in Anduin’s eyes left Wrathion smiling, putting his concerns to rest. A royal feast, with himself seated beside the king of Stormwind. He hadn’t begun to dream of such a thing, and yet—

The king laughed again. Wrathion pressed their lips together to murmur:

“Strong and brave. Just like I said, your Majesty.”


End file.
